The Runners

It hit me hard: “Madi, our guys screwed up. All these trucks are on a port radio frequency, and now the police are using that frequency to direct them where they want them. They are probably using the police chopper to do it. Somehow, I think the media got crossed up because they’re definitely gone.” Madi was turning all around, looking, looking back down the entry road. But we were also linking arms with other marchers and moving slowly toward the police line. Then we heard it: the unmistakable roar of motorcycles. “Oh please, god, let it be the Hell’s Angels,” Madi said. It was not the Hell’s Angels. It was about twenty-five or thirty motorcycle cops in full riot gear coming right at us from behind. Goddamn it, the police and mayor had gotten organized after all! In another minute, we would be surrounded and very likely get the shit beaten out of us. Like caged animals, the marchers were quickly looking around for a place to go. There was none. The motorcycle cops were slowing down and spreading out. They had to get off their bikes. Right in Madi’s ear, I yelled, “We got to get the hell out of here! I think we’ve got to sprint through that line of bikes, and we’ve got to do it now.” We both shook loose from the other marchers and sprinted full bore toward the motorcycle line. It took the police by surprise that two people were running directly at them. But they closed ranks to try and block us with their bikes. We both were full of adrenaline and running very fast side by side until Madi gave me a light shove, and we split toward opposite sides of the line. The police tried to turn back, but we were just a little too fast for them and successfully crashed their line and were running like crazy back together. Two of the motorcycle cops gunned their bikes after us, and the race was on. To our right were